I used to hide in my closet. When violence erupted, I would bolt for the stairs, run to my room, step into my closet, shut the door behind me, use the rod to swing my body up to the little shelf in the back, settle myself into the corner and pull blankets over my head. My father – who’s arthritis slowed his ability to follow me – would know I was upstairs but never once in his rage could find me. He sometimes looked in the closet, and I would hold still and not breathe, willing him away. In the dark on that small shelf I was safe. Of course my heart was racing – it felt like life or death – but as long as I could be quiet and still I would not be found.

I had an outdoor safe spot too, that I would retreat to when I was desperate for quiet time. My parents told my brother and I we were never to play near the river, but as long as we weren’t caught it seemed safe enough. I stepped over the guardrail, avoided the spring water that flowed down the big rocks on the steep embankment as I navigated my way downward to the river’s edge, then followed the grassy stretch downstream until I reached a small area hidden by a canopy of trees. Rather than stones, here the riverbanks was carved out of mud. I would tuck myself into the moist earth, and unlike in my closet hiding place, here I felt totally safe. Not only did no one know where I was, but no one was even looking for me. I was a girl just quietly sitting in her cave, watching the water.

When a guided meditation suggests to imagine myself in a safe place, I almost invariably find myself back on the river’s edge, with the smell of mud and silt, the sounds of white water and the breeze passing through the trees. One therapist insisted I deserved a new safe spot – something better than a cold, damp cave – and I did find a bright pasture, but in my mind I still return to the river because my little girl feels soothed by the familiar surroundings, and empowered by her choice to find sanctuary in such a forbidden place.

I have adult safe spaces too – places that nurture my soul. This summer I’ve spent a lot of time sitting outside at my picnic table, umbrella spread wide open, tapping the keys on my laptop. Sounds of the crickets chirping, bumblebees pollinating the nearby flowers, an occasional friendly neighbor waving from the road – I soak up the sense of safety in my world. Other times I hide in my modest little library, sitting in my armchair surrounded by books. My bedroom is another safe space – a nest that feels secure, with gifted art on the wall and shared with my furry four-leggeds.

Another therapist encouraged me to mimic a wet noodle. Relax, he said. With each deep breath, relax even further. If fear was not warranted (which usually mine isn’t), just relax until you’re like a wet noodle. It’s hard to feel scared when your muscles are completely relaxed. Instead my underlying emotions surfaced. It is my sadness that scares me the most, but relaxed I could touch it. Imagine, having your safe space be your body!

All this said, I still find the sense of safety to be elusive. Most the time my amygdala still signals danger, which is likely why I absolutely treasure those safe spaces. Today I will breathe, and be the wet noodle.